Pride
by Momerath
Summary: Sally Donovan is not proud of herself.  Post 2x03


Pride

Post-Reichenbach Falls. Spoilers.

I LOVE LESTRADE AND I DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS IT.

I was thrilled he was the third friend, though I have my sad suspicions something's up with that. But until further evidence, I'm taking it at face value, mmkay?

I also really felt that Sally was feeling pretty bad about the fallout. I may be being generous, but I don't care.

I've been really bad at finishing stories recently but I will, dammit, including my other Lestrade one, crossmyheartandhopetodie.

xxxx

She wasn't proud of herself.

She had wanted to say that to him for months, from the second he asked her and Anderson so angrily if they were, and she wanted to say it even more, later, when he was put on gardening leave, but hadn't found the words. She wasn't proud. She was ashamed.

That's what made her so sickened by Anderson's reaction. Anderson acted as though this was all part of the plan, that the DI would go down too. But that hadn't been the plan at all. There hadn't even been a plan. She'd be unbelievably naive, but she had really believed it could have gone back to the way it was, just her and the DI, working together, she'd really believed Sherlock had done these things, she'd really believed things were wrong and could be put right. Get the freakshow out of the picture and in jail where he belonged, get some glory for herself, move up the ladder – but not at the expense of the DI, and not by victimising an innocent man, however annoying he was. Not like that.

But that wasn't the way it happened.

She'd gone round to the DI's house once or twice to check in since, on the pretext of the cases they were having to review. He reminded her gently she shouldn't be talking to him about it, or indeed at all. "Sir, I'm sorry," she had said the last time. "But it'll be all right, all the convictions so far are watertight, and we've almost finished the review. You'll be back before you know it."

"A man's dead, Sally," he'd said, sadly. "And you don't have to call me sir anymore."

"No, sir," she'd said hopelessly, automatically, and he'd smiled wearily.

"No point being sorry," he told her, "because you're not finished yet. Moriarty was real, Sally, and you were had. He'll be back, I don't care if saying it makes me crazy, I don't care how many bodies of children's television presenters turn up on the roofs of every hospital in London, Moriarty was real and he will be back, and eventually he'll have to be dealt with, and I suggest you think on that because he fooled you and you owe him one hell of a fall."

She had wanted to say 'I believe you, and I'll help you find him', but the words hadn't been there.

And then a few days later she'd heard he'd resigned.

"Did he jump or was he pushed?" smirked Anderson, in even more poor taste than usual. Sally couldn't stand talking to Anderson anymore. Every time she looked at him, she remembered his face in the meeting with the superintendent, the one where their boss had called the DI a bloody idiot. He'd looked pleased. She'd just been wanting to die.

That wasn't what she had wanted. She'd been jealous of Sherlock, of Lestrade's attention to him, she had got jealous and she had got stupid. She had been proud of herself then, all right, oh yeah, for sure she'd been proud of herself. She'd been proud and blind and as arrogant as Sherlock himself, which was no mean feat. But pride comes before a fall, her granny had always said, something Sally never understood until standing in the superintendent's office watching the DI's life fall apart in front of her eyes, or watching him get the phone call, face grey as stone, saying over and over again, "John, slow down, slow down, I don't understand, you have to slow down..."

The convictions were all watertight because they were all fair. Of course the DI hadn't been so woeful at his job to jail legions of innocent people. Of course Sherlock hadn't really done all those things. If she'd kept her head and left off the bitterness, she'd have never thought he had, or dripped the poison into the DI's ear.

Now that poison had done its business – the DI was gone, his career was over, his marriage was probably about to be over, again, and it was their fault, his own team had brought him down, when all he had ever done for them was try and make them better coppers and be a better copper himself. He'd consulted with Sherlock because that meant he caught more bad people, not because it got him glory. And he'd resigned because he wouldn't lie to anyone, including himself.

She almost resigned herself when she heard. She wasn't proud of herself. She loathed herself. The only reason she didn't resign was because she loathed Moriarty more, and owed it to the DI to stick it out and to know Moriarty when she saw him.

And it was a few days after that when John Watson turned up in her life again.

She had a phone call from Reception saying someone was looking for DI Lestrade. "Did you take on his workload?" asked the receptionist, boredly. "Says his name is John Watson."

She practically ran down the stairs, before asking herself why she was so keen to face him, why so eager to throw herself under that bus. She stood behind the door for a few moments, examining her reaction. He was a reminder of a happier time, a better time, when things were moving in concert and not at right angles, when the DI was still in the office. Then she walked through the door.

He looked awful. He had every reason in the world to hate her very guts, but he managed a half-smile, not of forgiveness or friendship, but of recognition none the less. "I come in peace," he said, flatly. "Where's Greg? The lady at the desk didn't seem to think he was about."

"No. No, he's..." she hesitated. "I thought you'd be in touch with each other."

"No, not since – the funeral," was the reply. He looked everywhere but at her. He blamed her, she knew. She could feel it. But he was so lost in grief, he wasn't even angry with her, because she didn't matter at all. All that mattered was that Sherlock was gone. Sally was so desperately sorry.

I'm sorry Sherlock's dead, he was weird and arrogant, but he didn't deserve to be driven to suicide.

I'm sorry I've broken your heart.

I'm sorry the DI's life is destroyed, he was the best detective I will ever work with and a good, good man.

I'm sorry it's all my fault.

"Well, I was hoping to see Greg," continued John, still completely emotionlessly. "It would have been...I would have liked..." he cleared his throat and dug into his pocket. "Expect he's busy though, crime never sleeps etcetera. Could you give him these? I've been going through Sherlock's things and...it was a joke they had, sort of...it was done with affection, so I wanted to give them back...and, well, I expect he needs them."

Sally found herself holding eight of the DI's police badges.

She began to cry.


End file.
